The picture of Sebastian Michaelis
by PerfectImpersonation
Summary: An artist's brush, a liar's tongue, a luster's heart and noble's secret. As pleasure and passion become more desperately sought after, the perfect image becomes more than a necessity. When Sebastian is swept into a social whirlwind by the charismatic Earl Ciel Phantomhive, a soul seems a decent bargain price for eternal youth. Based on Oscar Wilde's 'Dorian Gray'.
1. January 7th 1872, The future

**Authors note:** So, if you hadn't guessed, this story is inspired by Oscar Wilde's 'Dorian Gray'. To anyone who has read the book or watched the film, I would just like to state that this fan-fiction will stray off the actual plot quite a bit, but only to add interest and character development, as I dislike veering into the lane of 'OOC' too much. For this reason, I'll try my upmost to keep all characters _in_ character, and, if one does display an emotion they might not show in canon, I'll leave a note at the end explaining it. However the basic plotline of 'Dorian Gray' will be the same.

I'd also like to point out that I will be using a full display of 'Kuroshitsuji' characters, and little to no OC's. Any OC's seen in this fan-fiction will be nothing more than 'props' or small characters.

Also, I would advise keeping a close eye on the time frame of each section, as this story will do a lot of time skipping near the beginning. It will even out pretty quickly though, so don't get down-hearted! Each chapter will be named with its prominent time frame so it's easier to navigate.

As a last note, in Wilde's 'Dorian Gray', hedonism plays a big part. To those who are unsure of what hedonism, and hedonistic practices are, here's a summary:

**Hedonism is a school of thought which argues that pleasure is the only intrinsic good. In very simple terms, a hedonist strives to maximize net pleasure (pleasure minus pain). In contrast to the philosophy, the commonplace use of the term hedonism often refers to a lifestyle oriented only towards selfish momentary pleasures. In this sense the term is often used pejoratively and interpreted as a sign of decadence. The term "psychological hedonism" is the basic assumption that humans are psychologically constructed in such a way that we exclusively desire pleasure.**

**Disclaimer:** The concept of 'Kuroshitsuji' is not mine, nor are any of the characters used. If I, by some miracle, did come into possession of 'Kuroshitsuji', I would litter it with so much fan-service you'd be sick.

* * *

**The Picture of Sebastian Michaelis**

**By PerfectImpersonation**

**March 21****st**** 1896**

_Burning. Everything is burning. Engulfed by a potent red flame, licking at my ankles, biting at my fingers. It's everywhere I can see. The thick wallpaper's curling, fraying as it desiccates. The beautiful mahogany table is charring, creating a sickening crackling sound as strip after strip of it collapses; falling like rotting skin away from the bone. _

_The smell in here is putrid. Like burning flesh, or bowing wood. It wafts around, driven by the heat of the fire, and fills every corner, every nook and cranny of this god forsaken room. _

_God forsaken. Much like me. The gates of heaven have closed now, locked and bolted for ever more. Nothing can save me, and no one would try. It's just me, only myself to blame, and only myself to curse. But that's ok, that fine, because all who surround me burn anyway. All who touch me are driven to the same insanity, pushed to the same cliff as me. _

_But no more. Tonight, these flames shall rewrite my past, and steady the future I'll never have. Nothing would give me greater joy… than to know all my imperfection shall be released, and in doing so, this nightmare will draw to a close. _

_Unclean. Unwanted. Unnecessary. Someone had once used those words to describe an acquaintance of mine. Though, would they not be better suited to me? _

_It's painful; the fire. Though the ghastly flames haven't touched my body, not yet. They're in my soul, permeating it with such velocity I can hardly keep up. They're engulfing it, coating it, surrounding it. _

_That blasted picture. Borne from only my absolution of conceit and desire to remain beautiful eternally._

_There's a prickling on my skin, _its skin. _The fire's reaching a new height. _

* * *

**January 7****th**** 1872**

It was midnight, the moon reaching its peak in the sky, its permeating light casting an eerie blanket on the scenery beneath it.

No stars could be seen, nor clouds in the sky. Only the steady swirling of the London fog and the steadily glowing windows of one house. London was asleep, wasting the night away in blissful peace, awaiting the rising of the sun, and the start of a new day.

But in the East of London, centring in the now infamous Cable Street, muffled music and shrouded lights can still be seen, glistening in the otherwise dark and dreary alleyways. Although the outwards appearance is that of mild disruption, inside tells a story of complete and utter chaos.

Of course, chaos is defined rather differently around here, with the lively hubbub of the day now dispersed. To everyone who gathers around Cable Street, and to those who enter the ever-lit house in the centre, chaos is the purest perfection.

Chaos is swirling colours; chaos is the dizzying sense of aloofness felt whilst drinking. Chaos is laughter that can't be located, and chaos is the world tumbling around you as you stand. It is pleasure and madness; it is an over-crowded room of drunks and an empty bottle of wine. And inside this cocoon of madness raged a fierce battle of fire and ice. Everyone in the room was a strong hedonist, and all believed in enjoying life to the full; finding that one true pleasure. Naturally, this sparked an array of soul rotting methods, some of which would be frowned upon by the day's standards.

There was drinking, dancing, smoking, prostitution, an onslaught of vibrant colours and an undeniable sense of lust floating in the thick air.

In in the middle of it all, was a man. A dark haired, bright eyed youth of no more than 20. He spun, twisting his way through the room, alcohol in hand and spirits high.

He was fast, darting around in a drink induced haze, smiling coyly at anyone who caught his eye. He moved to the centre of the room, through the masses of dancers and into the middle of the floor. Already hands were reaching for him, their twitching fingers desperate to find purchase.

But he dodged them all, swerving and side-stepping away from them as he moved. Eventually, a middle-aged man jumped to stand directly in his way, blocking his path with his big, beefy arms. The youth faltered, halting so as not to collide. His ruby eyes glanced over him, eyeing his small hat, cigar chewing lips, heavy coat and thick shoes.

A small smile slipped across his face, forming slowly as he grabbed the hat and placed it on his own head. The beefy guy before him frowned, the cigar drooping to accommodate such a movement.

The young man smirked now, the expression holding all the schemes and allure of a demon as he placed a hand on the man's cheek, brushing across his face before taking the cigar and placing it in his mouth. He took a long puff, making sure to blow the smoke in beefy's face before throwing the hat and moving on.

His dress shirt fell in disarray around his shoulders as he moved, the buttons either broken or missing. His claret red tie dangled precariously from his neck, occasionally swinging towards the rumpled waist coat at his elbows as he lifted his arms. His hair was feather soft and falling down his face, framing it; a corrupted halo of ebony. Though his most striking feature's, by far, were his burning red eyes. They shone from his pale face like precious stones, carrying every thought in his head, or gesture of his arms with such a refined finesse for his age.

Sebastian's head spun; his vision a compiled canvas of vibrant yellows, fiery oranges and luminescent reds. He stood - half naked - in the middle of a room, his right hand grasping an empty bottle of wine and his left convulsing pointlessly by his leg.

Hands slid all over his body, some in his hair, around his arms, and others roaming over the expanse of skin his shirtless attire permitted them to. His head lolled back, lost in the intense tenure that raked his body.

The string ensemble provided a lively background for the huddle of people gathered around him, and produced an almost metronomic pluck, a beat to which they all moved too. _This _was what he lived for. The heady lull, the masses of people surrounding him, _encasing _almost. He was the latest catch, the new favourite, and he loved it.

Smirking, he moved his body, turning on his heel to face a rather beautiful redhead - her arms having been dragging across his back. He inclined his head, extended his arm, then grabbed her and pressed their bodies together. A lewd sound escaped her mouth as they kissed, her hands flying to find new purchase on the waistband of his pants.

Noticing this, Sebastian pulled away, smiling coyly at the now disappointed girl as he backed off. Chuckling slightly he dropped the empty wine bottle he previously held and made his way towards a reforming crowd, and a light-haired male who, unsurprisingly, was dancing erotically against another body. They were both obviously drunk, but as was the norm on nights like these.

Fine wine went hand in hand with their hedonistic views, and being sober throughout the night was a feat no man had achieved as of yet.

Recently nights like these were coming in rapid succession. The need for the ultimate pleasure becoming overwhelming. Euphoria was what Sebastian now sought, and it seemed, the closer he got, the farther it seemed. Yet every night he would still hold this hedonistic charade in his own home, in the hopes that his aspiration would soon be met.

It used to be a club, a ruddy bar, that he trailed along too, desperate for a release from the stuffy life he led. But it wasn't enough. No satisfaction was found in drinking cheap beverages and wasting the night on loose prostitutes. So, true to form, he replaced the bar for the dazzling rooms of his own capacious house.

For him, money was no longer an objection, so anything that c_ould_ go bigger and better, inevitably would. His 'house' was now little short than a mansion, and his 'gatherings' were little less than masked balls.

Upon reaching the male, he smiled, waiting for the blue eyes he stared at to focus enough to realize who was coming. Smiling lazily the blonde detached himself from his partner – who promptly fell over from lack of support – and sauntered towards the raven-haired male.

Now fully immersed in the sea of bodies, the two engaged in a vicious kiss, callous hands winding together by their heads. Sebastian was losing it, the expensive wine he had previously downed taking its toll on his now shaking frame.

His head was light, his legs like jelly, and his skin practically burning, the only escape from the heat being the cool necklace that hung from his neck.

But this wasn't any old necklace. It was a secret, a lie that must be protected. It was the key to his soul. And it was beautiful; a thin, diamond encrusted chain holding a matching gold key, its old edges chipped and broken, and its colour weak and fading.

Contrary to the norm, its apparent old age only added to its beauty, and Sebastian would usually hide it under his shirt from fear of it being stolen. Tonight, however, that was impossible; his shirt in ruins and all other means of distraction washed away by drink.

His eyes slid shut, the garish décor around him and ostentatious laughing only fuelling the pronounced ache in his head. A firm slap to his ass sent a jolt up his spine, his current partner pausing to glare half-heartedly at the intruder.

By this point, Sebastian didn't care who was with him, as long as that peak of euphoria was reached, and as long as his night ended well. The room spun for a second as he was swivelled round, a brunette now placing feather-light kissed across the expanse of his neck.

A low, guttural growl was emitted – surprisingly from his own voice – as a spider-like hand flitted over his skin, massaging in places and teasing the now flustered young man.

No heed was paid to the key dangling from his neck as Sebastian lost himself yet again in the heaven-like countenance of the others cool touch. He was dizzy now, dizzy and fading fast. In no time at all, he would be splayed across the floor, face down in a puddle of his own vomit.

That couldn't, _mustn't _happen. For if it did, his moment would be lost, and his high would never be granted.

More people had gathered around him now. A male, hanging benignly from his shoulder, a female gripping his hips with a fierce intensity, another female winding herself around his legs, and the blond from before draping his arms around Sebastian's neck.

All this lust, all this passion collected and projected into one room. This was perfection. This was heaven on earth, this was…

And then it ceased.

Where was the comforting weight of the key on his chest? Sebastian's breathing faltered, it was as if a bucket of cold water had cascaded down his face, or ice had been shoved down his back. His neck snapped to the right, then the left, dark hair flailing out as his eyes scanned the surrounding faces. His gaze travelled to the floor, perhaps it had merely fallen off, or the chain had broken.

The world shifted from its hazy alignment to one of perfect clarity. The heady atmosphere dispersed, and with it the lust, the passion and the euphoric scene as a whole. No longer was Sebastian in a beautiful haven of vibrant colours and lewd movements.

He could see everything. Absolutely everything. The prostitutes dangling from the banisters, displaying their 'wares' to the room. The usually well composed gentlemen of the age gavotting around, half lucid and barely staying upright with the weight of the wine they drank. The scores of people clambering and climbing to reach towards his own body, the way they grappled and grabbed for a chance to even _touch_ his skin.

He saw the abundance of wine bottle's littering the floor, and the way they dripped their alcoholic insides out onto the expensive carpet below. And last of all, his eyes caught sight of the poor, unfortunate soul that dared to lay a hand on his necklace.

_His necklace._

Finally, his frantic searching met an end. Sebastian let out a deep sigh, releasing a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

The offender was a man. He was fairly well built, with medium length, light brown hair tied messily behind his back with a blue bow. His clothes were in an atrocious state of disarray, with his waist coat hanging off one arm, and his shirt off the other.

His left hand gripped the dangling key around Sebastian's neck with determination as he lifted his head to address him. Normally, Sebastian guessed the man would have been about a head taller than himself, but a night full of drink and lust caused him to stoop quite dramatically.

"Oh, would you look at that," The man's voice was low and seductive, like velvet or honey. As he spoke, he lifted the chain to dangle in front of Sebastian's face, a lazy smile adorning his mouth, "I hold the key to your heart."

Sebastian's eyes widened and an uneasy shiver prickled along his skin. _He's touching it. He's holding it. He can't… I won't let him take it. He mustn't. He _won't!

The words previously spoken to him resounded in his ears, a raw compulsion to smash the strangers face in rising prominently to the surface of his thoughts. Sebastian moved, his figure jerking away from the masses of bodies surrounding him, and towards the imbecilic man that dare touch his key.

They collided, and crashed unceremoniously down to the floor in a heap of intangible limbs and disarrayed clothes. A scream could be heard, a clatter of wood and glass, and the music stopped. The whole room grinded to a halt, all eyes trained on the scene before them.

Sebastian shook his head, attempting to force his vision to cease its infernal shaking. Once he could see enough to gage his surroundings, he looked downwards, coming face to face with a shocked, doe eyed man, clinging desperately onto the rug he had fallen on.

They had fallen a fair distance from where they'd previously stood, with Sebastian's lean body covering the one below him. His elbows had been propped on either side of the stranger's head, with both their legs tangling together in a mess.

'_I hold the key to your heart.'_

If only the brunette beneath him knew just how realistic his statement was. _No one can ever find out._

"Get out." Sebastian's voice was cold, his monotony alone enough to scare the wits out of the poor male he spoke to. _No one must ever know. _

"Uh, what?" Unlike Sebastian, the brunette's mind was still sloshing about in alcohol, the dizzy fog having yet to disperse. _No one would understand._

"I said, get out." Tepid annoyance was leaking into his voice now, his mood turning the same ink black shade as his hair. _No one can see my true face._

"Look, uh," The idiot was babbling now. "I don't, uh, think you –"

"I SAID GET OUT! And if I ever see your sorry face here again, by god I'll make sure you'll never smile again! Now LEAVE!" _No one can know how hideous I truly am. _

Sebastian stood, allowing the body beneath him to wriggle away, gain his legs and run off with all the speed of a champion. Turning back towards the rest of the party, it finally dawned on him just how much of a scene he'd made. Wide eyes and open mouths greeted him, the only sound being that of a shattering glass, having no doubt fallen from a dazed onlooker's hand.

Shaking his head, Sebastian turned to leave, waving his hand dismissively at the rest of the congregation.

"Go. The lot of you. The night has ended." He wasn't even looking at them as he spoke, walking away out of fear of doing something he would regret forever. He rubbed his eyes, trying to force the remnants of the dusky wine from his system. When nothing but silence and a few awkward shuffles greeted him, he turned begrudgingly back around on his heel.

"Did none of you hear me? This night is OVER!" What with his coal black hair, sparking red eyes and uncontrollable temper, Sebastian was the personification of deep fury and wild severance.

But that was the catch. _His _catch. The society of the 1800's demanded vanity, virtue and decadence, and Sebastian's 'crowd' was no different. They loved him, c_raved_ him for his wild, auspicious nature and fetid desires.

He entranced them to the brim, letting them leave their intolerable lives, allowing them to walk the carnivorous path they so desired, leaving them spoilt and full. In short, Sebastian was leading the life they so craved as they watched, hungry and desperate, sitting back as he drove himself deeper into the hedonistic way of life they loved, and wishing it was themselves in his place.

Wishing it was themselves that possessed such a fierce beauty, and themselves that captivated even the oldest, wisest of men.

With heavy sighs and mild curses, they left, bringing with them the heady atmosphere that once seeped through the halls.

Sebastian shook his head, frowning at his previous out-burst. Was it necessary, though? Letting a short puff of air escape his lips, Sebastian took a walk, leaning for a moment again a marble pillar to catch his breath.

Having calmed down, he made his way towards the centre staircase, letting his shoes sink into the soft velvet adorning the stairs as he climbed upwards. They were grand, marvellous to say the least.

Two white, marble pillars stood either side, acting as an almost doorway. The stairs themselves were beautiful; long, thin strips of marble adorned with a soft, red velvet over-rug.

At the top, deep emerald wallpaper covered the walls, making a stark contrast to the bright reds and gold's of the ballroom.

His house was a capacious labyrinth of winding corridors and hollow rooms, each with pointless and indulgent furniture, and each almost never used. This allowed for a fair to decent stroll, without the limitations of claustrophobia or boredom.

There was always a new corridor to walk, or room to explore, it seemed. Eventually, though, he returned to the room in which his catastrophic party began. He walked, with little to no deliberation, towards the fire place in the centre of the back wall, making sure to jump and dodge as many inanimate objects as was humanly possible. Plush cushions, empty beverage bottles, violin bows and garish ribbons were some of the many items decorating the once polished floor.

He eventually came to a halt a mere centimetre away from the fire place, and just stared. Not at the fire place itself, not at the various ornament on the mantle, but at the empty wall above it.

It was a plain, gauze-like cream colour, and if Sebastian was honest, it utterly repulsed him. It didn't used to be this bad, in fact, once upon a time it was a rather splendid sight.

The now lifeless wall had once held a portrait, the thick canvas serving to partially blot out the ghastly colour. But this wasn't any old portrait, no, this plain, pathetic wall once held a mirror image of Sebastian Michaelis himself, clad in all his youthful glory.

It was the done thing for young nobles to get a portrait made, yet, if Sebastian recalled, the process was one of heavy sighs and boredom. He had stood, day after day for some eccentric painter who absolutely adored him, to finally walk away with what he had called a masterpiece.

A ghost of a smile graced Sebastian's lips as his hand reached towards the wall, a lithe finger swiping aimlessly at the dust that gathered there.

"I am my own despair," He chuckled lightly, the cheer never quite reaching his eyes. "Some claim age is a blessing, that grey hair builds a man. What nonsense," He pulled back, rocking on his heels slightly as his eyes scanned the wall before him. "To watch your features slip slowly into ruin, to hear your voice crack with age, what does that build, save the growing melancholy of loneliness?" He turned now, refusing to acknowledge the 'elephant in the room'. "To look in a mirror, daily, and watch your hourglass slowly trickle away. A mirror is like a portal, and a refection is like a soul. If that was the case, would age be such a prised thing? Your soul would rot and decay at the same rate as your body. What a pitiable thought." He walked away, step, step, step, until his hand reached the doorway. "The stain of years shall never grace my skin, nor shall the pressing lines of age make any imprint. I shall walk, in rebellious infancy, for the rest of my days." He turned one last time, ruby eyes skirting over the canvas-less wall. "What a disgusting being I have become."

And with that, he left.

* * *

**March 21****st**** 1896**

_It's nearly over. The fire's dying, and so am I. _

_I can hear screaming, it's not my own, even though I am the only living being for miles. But… that's a lie. _

_Let me rephrase. _

_I'm the only living, _animate _being for miles. Yes, that rings true on all accounts._

_Who would have ever thought, me of all people, would die for the one I love. Such an emotion was void in me for a long time, hidden under the blanket of lust and passion I slept on. But now, here I am, and here I shall remain for ever more, forming nothing but ashes and a despicable memory. I'm a curse to all who met me, and a burden to all who housed me. _

_Was I always that way?_

_No. In fact, I can pinpoint the very day the warped talons of fate twisted my future, and I can recall the very man who fate chose to guide me down this path. Oh, how I hope he rots in hell along with me, and shares my eternal suffering. No greater fate is deserved of him. So then…_

_I'll see you in hell, _

_Phantomhive. _

* * *

22/07/12

**Authors note:** Oh, what a confusing chapter! Well, it certainly gives an insight into my atrocious style of writing, doesn't it? Drop a comment if you can, reviews, favourites and follows are always loved dearly, and serve to spur me on for more!

As a bonus, can anyone guess who I've swapped the other characters for? So far we have:

Sebastian Michaelis: Dorian Gray

And that's it. I'll pose this question after every chapter, so feel free to make a guesstimate as to _any _answers at any point. Cyber cookies to whoever gets one right!

See you next time, dear reader!


	2. October 4th 1855, The earl

**Authors note: **Wow, another chapter in under a week! I'm on a roll now. I doubt this spree will last long though, so I apologise in advance for my future fails to meet targets.

It was whilst writing this chapter, that I realized just how far I'm veering from the plotline of 'Dorian Gray', but that doesn't matter, really. The concepts the same, and that's all I said in the description, hopefully.

Also, for the first part of this story, Ciel won't have an eye-patch. Without revealing too much, I can say that it will appear eventually.

Anyway, enjoy!

**Disclaimer: ** The concept of 'Kuroshitsuji' is not mine, nor are any of the characters used. If I, by some miracle, did come into possession of 'Kuroshitsuji', I would litter it with so much fan-service you'd be sick.

* * *

**The Picture of Sebastian Michaelis**

**By PerfectImpersonation**

**October 4****th**** 1855**

A train station is such an aggravating thing. No joy can be found in queuing for an eternity and paying a small fortune, only to be crammed into a miniscule tin of a carriage with around 30 others.

Of course, Sebastian could very well have afforded a first class ticket, if he had been so inclined. But he was young. New to the comings and goings of adult life. To him, and every up and coming adult of the day, every penny, no matter how small, was worth a lifetime.

So that's why Sebastian found himself, on a busy Monday morning, packed like imported fruit into a second class carriage with nothing short of five travel bags in the storage carriers above.

It went without saying that, on this particular trip, Sebastian was getting more than his fair share of peeved stares and unabashed glares. _Nobody _in the working class of the day wanted to see a pompous, over-dressed nobleman with an abundance of over-priced bags, sitting unashamed in a second class eat, and showing off his wealth and riches to just about everyone.

It also didn't help that that very same nobleman had barely crossed the line into adulthood, yet was still in possession of more money than anyone else could dream of holding.

A loud blast of a shrill train whistle signified the end of the journey, and with weary, sleepless eyes the passengers left the carriage, readying themselves for yet another hard day of work. This was not the case, however, for Sebastian. He was bright eyed and alert, having received a generous amount of rest the night before, and a fair to decent breakfast.

Stepping of the carriage, he was greeted by a wall of sound, so loud was the station that he felt half inclined to jump back on the train and leave without a backwards glance. A shove to the shoulder snapped him out of his thoughts, forcing him to take a step back to accommodate a power-walking business man, his thick stride twice the size of what Sebastian would have used and his head apparently stuck in a pennyworth newspaper.

This rude welcome was followed by yet another shove, this time from a young lady, her arms balancing two toddlers, and her shoulders laden with bags and straps. In the chaos, she had reversed right into the young noble, dropping her bag and cursing profoundly in the process.

After collecting her bag she gave a quick glance at Sebastian, shook her head and shooed her children on. Sebastian sighed, turning to fetch his many luggage items. He hopped back onto the train, frowning as he realized second class didn't provide a clerk or a bag carrier to assist you.

"Should have thought that one through." Running a hand down his face, he lifted his arm, patting the shelf until a leather strip came into grasp. Grunting slightly, he pulled the bag free, dropping it unceremoniously to the ground. "Ah, better not have been the china."

A yawn forced its way passed his lips, his arms stretching above his head in what could only be described as a cat yawn. Of course, they couldn't go far, the thick winter coat he wore made sure of that. Undoing the first few buttons of his coat with one hand, he reached the other up onto the shelf again, feeling around for bag number two.

Having freed his neck from the thick wool, his other hand joined the first one, both sets of fingers scrabbling around blindly, until a second leather strip was located. This bag was lowered far more carefully, with one hand underneath and the other holding the handle.

"Two out of five completed, I'm basically half way there." With that thought in mind, the third bag was retrieved, followed by the forth, and the fifth. With all bags now safely on the carriage floor, Sebastian collapsed on the seat, face flushed from the strain and eyes sliding shut. Opening his eyelids a crack; he checked his pocket watch, semi-opened eyes struggling to position the tiny hands on the clock face.

"Ah, 9:50, I have ten minutes before the train departs." Heaving himself up, he straightened his neck, and was promptly strangled with what he assumed was his shirt collar. His body now fully erect, he set about undoing his top button and loosening the garish tie he had previously donned. "Ha, if _she_ saw me now," He chuckled, tuning his voice to one of a high-pitch trill, lifting his nose up and clasping his hands in front of his chest. " 'Now Sebastian, no young man would _dare_ to walk around in _broad daylight _looking the _filthy_ mess that you do!" He lent down, lean form bending as he stared at himself in the carriage window. "Now do that collar up!" He reached out to his refection, pointing at the undone button. "And straighten that tie!" He smiled, breaking away from his refection and losing the drawn expression on his face. _What would she say if she saw _that?

Another painstaking ten minutes past, and Sebastian found himself standing by a wooden bench, five luggage bags in tow, about a metre from where the train had left. He looked around, garnet eyes scanning the depleting crowd for a bag carrier.

None were to be seen. He eyed the bench, gaze flitting over it, trying to determine just how much filth had piled up, and if it was worth the risk. Eventually fatigue got the better of him and he collapsed onto it anyway.

The station was quieter now, the hubbub having died as people left for their jobs. This meant Sebastian was granted a better look at his surroundings. The station was huge; there were around 50 massive, iron pillars and suspenders climbing up to the roof, followed close behind with smaller, wooden ones.

The roof was all glass, allowing a clear view of the sunken, grey sky, broken only by the metal separators sliding in between.

The floor was a cold, grey stone, leading to wooden stairs and iron railings. To the right, a line of eight railways disappeared into eight different tunnels, all of which held a faint chug, chug, chug as the steam engines departed for their next destination.

The walls were hidden, mostly by newspaper plastered over cracks, or by the iron pipes climbing upwards, snaking around each other like ivy.

It truly was a sight to behold, a marvel of the industrial revolution in Sebastian's opinion. He rubbed his neck, gaze returning to the glass ceiling as he contemplated his next move.

"If only I possessed a blasted map, and possibly a horse. Navigating this city seems to be far more trouble than it's worth." Finally rising, he turned towards his bags. "Damn, my transport will be arriving soon." And with that, Sebastian Michaelis began his long trek to the entrance.

At this point, Cable Street seemed half the globe away.

* * *

"Hold still! I can't paint with you wriggling around as much as you do."

"And who says I actually _want _another portrait? I have plenty."

"I _Know_ you want another, you always do. Vanity never fails to gets the better of you, Ciel. As you say 'Youth is the only real sentiment in life. Without it, man's reputation crumbles, and his usefulness depletes'."

"Ha! You make it sound as though you abhor staring at me for hours on end." Ciel muttered, shifting yet again on the wooden stool upon which he sat. "You enjoy this more than I do." He frowned, his lips forming a slight downward curl as his sapphire eyes hardened. "Stupid artist."

The artist in question raised his head, golden eyes staring from behind thin framed glasses. He gave a look of irritated contempt before flicking his gaze back towards his canvas.

Ciel sighed, glaring at the painter before sliding his eyes towards the back wall, and towards the many mirror images of himself displayed there. In point of fact, all the paint covered canvases in the room depicted him; some smiling, others not, some standing, sitting, some with flowers and others with fruit.

It seemed that just about every form of portrait had been tried and tested on him, and then redone for good measure.

It was three years ago the pair met, at some opera or another, during the interval. Ciel had been herded towards the artist at the young age of twelve, and introduced.

"_Now, Ciel, be polite. Come and greet Mr Faustus."_ His mother had then dragged him towards a crowd of intellectual looking men, most sporting the most abhorrent facial hair. However, the supposed 'artist' Ciel was introduced to had had no beard or moustache to speak of.

His face was a pale, clean shaven sculpture, the chin masculine and the golden yellow eyes shining from behind a pair of plain, black-rimmed glasses. The bespectacled man held an almost sullen, solitary air about him, and Ciel wondered how on earth he could hold such a creative job, looking as blank and emotionless as he did.

It was months later, that Ciel finally understood the man's dull exterior. The artist, who's name turned out to be Claude Faustus, drove so much of himself, so much enthusiasm and emotion into his paintings that there was little spared for himself.

The result was a fantastic work of art, and a fantastically dull artist. It was Ciel's understanding, that the concept of art is to shadow the artist, and any people painted on those blank canvases were replicas of the artist himself, and not the person sitting for them.

It was both a blessing and a curse that Claude harboured an almost immediate obsession towards the boy. Over the three years they had known each other, painting upon painting had been created in Ciel's likeness, and all depicted his slow progression into adulthood.

So now, at the age of just fifteen, Earl Ciel Phantomhive owned no less than 30 canvases bearing his face, and no more than 50 small sketches.

That was the blessing; the fact Ciel could own any array of paintings of himself, and never have to pay a penny. The 'curse' however, was something Ciel often stated wasn't worth the beautiful art created. He absolutely _despised _Claude Faustus, and loathed spending day after day in his studio because of it.

There were only two reason why Ciel forced himself the endure this man's presence.

The first, being his extreme vanity. He would be loath to admit it, but Ciel had an extreme obsession with youth and appearance, and would stare at himself intently in the mirror every morning to gage just how much he'd aged. It was his personal opinion, that youth and beauty were the only key features in fame and fortune. Without both, the idealistic life just _couldn't_ be obtained.

This theory brought forth a desperate need to remain youthful forever, and, the only way to achieve such an impossible goal, was through the medium of artistry. It was sheer luck that himself and Claude had met, because without him, Ciel was sure he would never have found such a devoted painter, and defiantly not one who seemed to cherish his muse more than the clothes he wore, or the bed he slept in.

The second, and slightly sentimental reason, was his parents. Just a year after meeting the artist, Ciel's parents had passed away, both from an unfortunate freak food poisoning incident.

Of course, the death was slow; neither of them guessing the mild stomach aches and nausea they possessed was anything more than a common flu. Never-the-less, they eventually did pass away, leaving their then thirteen year old boy in charge of the entire Phantomhive heritage.

And, because it was his mother that had first introduced Mr Faustus and himself, every time he visited he would feel as if a tiny piece of her still lived.

Right now, though, all the vanity in the world couldn't stop the intense jitters Ciel was suffering. He had been sitting in the exact same position for no less than three hours, and the cramps winding up his back were torture in themselves.

He fidgeting again, eyes scouring the room for something to stare at, something to cure the intense boredom threatening to sear his brain. And then he found it. It was a portrait, hidden among the scores and scores of blue eyed, dark-haired faces that were undoubtedly Ciel. This one, however, was most certainly _not_ the Earl Phantomhive, and that fact was the sole reason Ciel stared at it with such intent.

It was a young man, possibly a few years older than Ciel, with dark ebony hair and contrasting pale skin. He stood, in the same place as Ciel now sat, framed by an emerald green curtain, and placed slightly off centre on the frameless canvas.

He was wearing a crisp, white shirt; its sleeves ending in a balloon like cut, returning suddenly inward to wrap around his wrist. Over the shirt, a gray waist coat hugged his middle, bringing out his apparent lean frame and thin waist. A crimson tie halved the shirt, bringing a relief from the perfection of the white.

His eyes, though, were what help the greatest prominence. They shone from between the raven frame of his hair; a startling, beautiful red. They spoke volumes, too. It was a popular saying in the nineteenth century that a picture could speak a thousand words, but the emotion in this man's eyes was something Ciel had never caught before.

Combined with the slight up-turning of the young man's lips it composed a look of indifferent wonder, or of a brilliant power or control of oneself.

But as magnificent as the canvas was, it _wasn't_ Ciel. And, as much as he despised Claude with every fibre of his being, the very fact he had taken the time to create a masterpiece that was _not _influenced by himself filled him with a sort of maddening jealousy. Who was this man, and why had Claude taken such an interest in him?

The only thing that stirred a deeper jealousy than the one he already harboured, was the skill that had had gone into fashioning the work.

The artist had never put _that_ much work into any of the portraits of Ciel, so why did this stranger get such fantastic care thrust into his? Every fibre of wool, and every last hair was expertly painted with such a likeness to reality it might as well have been a mirror.

The lighting was perfect as well, shining in just the right way to bring out his face, and accentuate the vibrant colour of his eyes. His hair, too, shone in the light, the glistening surface captured perfectly by the calloused brush strokes.

And the man was beautiful, so much so that such a refined image shouldn't be in the possession of a living being.

Ciel had half a mind to believe that have this man's looks were merely painted, and in actuality he was dull as pond water. But even then, Claude was a man of little imagination, his only art coming from objects placed directly in front of him, so this mystery muse couldn't be a far cry from the perfection of the painted version of himself.

Ciel's forehead creased, a frown marring his contemplative expression.

This work, this art sitting before him could well be the peak of Claude's career. This awe inspiring man could be Claude's best piece, shoving any and all of Ciel's to second post.

Hopping off his stool, Ciel made a languid track towards the artwork, making sure not to give even a glance to the many imitations of himself littering the room. Once he got there, he raised his arms, flicking his hand towards the statuesque man on the canvas.

Over the years, Ciel had developed a reputation for speaking his mind. His mind, incidentally, happened to be filled with a never ending flow of criticism for the lifestyle of the day. These strong opinions had formed not too long ago, in one of his aunts many capacious libraries. It was there he had stumbled across, in his boredom, a book titled 'Hedonism and Selfishness'.

The title, coupled with the worn, leather bound appeal of the book, drew him in almost instantly, and, throwing himself down on a nearby armchair, he began to read.

The book spoke of the many pleasures in life, and the many more man denies himself. It spoke of the soul, and how it rots, even as 'good deeds' were done, and how selfishness was, more often than not, the real motive behind the aforementioned deeds.

Most of the good done in the world was done out of a need to _feel_ good, and to be granted an access to the Christian heaven, and eternal life.

It was whilst reading this enlightening material, that Ciel started thinking. And soon he was the talk of London, famed as the young man with the views of an old crone. Soon after that, the 'higher circles' of London began speaking well of him, earning him more fame than some of the higher nobility could ever hope to achieve.

It was at that point, that the desperation for youth and beauty began. It was then Ciel realized his fame would only last as long as his face, and once he started withering, people would lose interest. At that moment, he decided upon artistry.

What other means of preserving youth was there? Even if his face was to wrinkle, and his eyes were to dull, he would always own a snapshot of his youth, a mirror in which to look in daily and pretend he was still the strapping young man he once was.

And the mere notion that _his_ artist wasn't wholly devoted to him annoyed him more than anything.

"Who is he?" Ciel asked, his eyes hardening as he stared at the artist.

Claude gazed at the paint, his lips forming one of his trademark invisible smirks. "Jealous, are we?" He returned, voice grating on Ciel's ears more than usual.

"No, what's there to be jealous of?" The young Earl crossed his arms in front of his chest, only to drop them down as he realized what he was doing. "I'm merely inquiring as to his identity." He walked away, moving to stand by the lattice window by the door.

"I'm not going to tell you." Claude's voice was indifferent, his face returning to its blank fixture as he re-faced his work.

"And why not?" Anger was slowly simmering within the Earl Phantomhive, and it was showing. He turned on his heel, his back now facing the window as he glared daggers at the artist before him, almost burning holes in the opposing man's skull.

"Because I don't feel like it." Yet another emotionless answer, Ciel was getting restless, the simmering anger within him moving to a slow boil.

"Well _I _feel like it, so tell me." His hands were clenched now, fingers going white from the pressure exerted. The strange thing was it didn't even matter much who the man was. He just wanted to know purely because Claude wasn't telling him; one of his more childish traits. "Tell me, or I'll stop coming." He was getting desperate; he was actually unlikely to see the threat through, and he knew it.

"No, you won't. And even if you did it wouldn't be a great loss on my part, Sebastian's coming again today." As soon as the words passed his lips Claude rolled his eyes, sighing at his own stupidity.

"His names Sebastian? How ordinary." Ciel was actually slightly disappointed. A boring name usually meant a boring personality. "And how _long _has he been coming?" How long _had_ this Sebastian been visiting the studio?

"Yes, Sebastian Michaelis if you must know. He's been coming on and off for three months now. He doesn't live in the area, so travel is hard."

"Three months! You've been painting him for _three months_ without informing me?" He was livid. _How dare_ Claude paint someone else for no less than t_hree months_ without telling him?

"You make it sound like an affair. I'm not married to you, nor am I a private artist. Remember that." Claude's cool countenance emanated from where he stood, his amber eyes peaking yet again from behind his spectacles. For once, he was actually smirking, the expression bringing a cruel light to his face. Ciel blushed, his hatred for Claude increasing tenfold.

"Well then, I'll be off. And you can scrap that piece of crap now, I don't want it. Have fun with your dear _Sebastian._" Ciel sneered, walking towards the door. At that moment though, it opened, the face of Claude's valet appearing from behind the satinwood frame.

"A Lord Michaelis is in the drawing room for you, sir."

* * *

**24/07/12**

**Authors note: **Phew, that was fun! I actually had to redo the last section twice though, as my laptop deleted it the first time D: Never-the-less, here it is, in all its error filled glory. It was so hard to write Claude, he's such a boring person! I'm afraid he's too OOC.

As a bonus, can anyone guess who I've swapped the other characters for? So far we have:

Sebastian Michaelis: Dorian Gray

Ciel Phantomhive: Lord Henry (Harry) Wotton

Claude Faustus: Basil Hallward

And that's it. I'll pose this question after every chapter, so feel free to make a guesstimate as to _any _answers at any point. Cyber cookies to whoever gets one right!

And now, for a pointless, yet crucial blabber as to why I chose who I chose for the 'roles' of Basil and Harry. If you haven't read/watched 'Dorian Gray', this part isn't vital, but you might want to read it non-the-less.

**Ciel as Harry:** This choice was a hard one, as Lord Henry is such a complex character. I eventually settled on Ciel to fill the role, despite the notable age gap. This choice was based on both their personalities. Both seem to care a great deal for physical appearance, with Harry obsessed with youth and beauty, and Ciel forever trying to appear twice his age, and three times his height. Both Characters also harbour extreme views on the modern society of the day.

**Claude as Basil:** Again, this choice was based on personality. Both Claude and Basil thrust a great deal of themselves into their work, and both strive for perfection. Also, they both seem to develop immense obsessions very quickly, and both seem to carry these obsessions with them everywhere. The relationship between Ciel (Harry) and Claude (Basil) is almost completely different to the book, in which both are friends. In my version, though, they are drawn together only by obsession and vanity.

I would like to stress that I don't have any interest in Claude (in point of fact, I strongly dislike him, he's so mean), nor do I favour him over any other character in 'Kuroshitsuji', I'm just using him as a minor character.

And sorry for any grammatical or spelling mistakes, they're a pet hate of mine, so I try my hardest to make sure they don't crop up, although I know some do fall through the strong filter I use to sift through them.

See you next time, dear reader!


	3. October 4th 1855, The portrait

**Authors note:** Ah, again a speedy update. I'm truly astounding myself this time. All my others stories have either been one-shots or failed multi-chapters that quickly got deleted. But I think this one has actual hope!

I'd also like to make a quick shout out to 'Pwoper Fic Writer' and 'Satoshi'sBabe', who have given continued support, and without whom this story would have ended up like my other multi-chapters; in the bin. So thanks guys!

* * *

**The picture of Sebastian Michaelis**

**By PerfectImpersonation**

**October 4****th**** 1855**

The east end of London was silent, the peaceful nothingness broken only by the clip clop of horses' hooves on cobbled road. A shiny cab pulled up onto the curb of a lonely road, the wooden wheels halting and leaving the horses to fidget minutely, only giving small snorting sounds as they waited to continue.

" 'Ere y'are guvna', a' shan't keep ya' long, just pay me fare an' I'll be off." The old cab driver waved his gnarled hands into the back of the cab, his toothless grin still unnerving Sebastian. But regardless of how sordid the man looked, or how reliable he'd claimed his service to be, he'd taken the young noble to a destination that was most certainly _not _the Cable Street he was looking for.

"Ah, sorry to be a bother, but this isn't No. 4 Cable Street. If you'll be so good as too–" And there's where his sentence ending, grinded to a halt by the frantic waving of that browned, bony hand.

"Aye, a' know ta' were a' ave' taken ya'! Some fella' paid a handsome fare ta' 'ave me take ya' to 'is house. Looked ta' me ta' be an arty fella', 'ad paint on 'is lapel, so 'e did." He then proceeded to get out of the cab, walk round the back, and open Sebastian's door. "Now, if ya' wouldn't mind," He gestured towards the street curb. "I 'ave a full day ta'day, and a' must be off."

Sebastian frowned, stepping out of the cab. Once out, he caught sight of the driver unstrapping his luggage from the top of the cab, the thick ropes holding them down now coming quite loose.

"What are you doing?" The driver looked at him, gave him an almost incredulous look before carrying on with the job at hand. "Surely you can just drop them off at Cable Street." The nobles forehead creased, his annoyance growing too difficult to contain.

"No, sorry 'bout tha' gunva'. I'm 'eaded in the otha' direction, I am." The statement was emphasised by the dropping of the first bag. Sebastian flinched, praying for the second time that day that nothing valuable was in such a carelessly handled bag.

Soon after, the second came tumbling down, then the third, fourth, fifth, until Sebastian was left, standing on the curb of an almost gleaming street, hoping he knew where he was.

The driver paced round one last time, coming to a stop directly before the young man. "As a' said before, I'll need me' fare's before 'am off." His shaking hand reached out again, grasping at thin air. Sebastian's hands clenched. The nerve of this man!

He had the gall to drive him to the wrong place, dump his bags on the curb _then_ expect to be paid for it! The very idea was laughable.

"Didn't that 'arty fellow' pay for this?" He gestured madly around him, smiling triumphantly, so sure of having won this round. "I should have no need of paying twice for the same trip."

"No, ya' need to pay tha' original fare. 'E only paid extra for a detour, so 'e did." The grasping hand returned. "A' went outta' my way ta' bring ya' 'ere!" The old man stepped forwards again, eyes coming up to Sebastian's shoulders due to his stooping. "Now pay up, or a' swear ta' tha' lord I'll call tha' coppa's!" He was frantic, his drooping old face colouring to a strange shade of purple, and his movements becoming ever more jerky and uncoordinated as he, for all intents and purposes, _shoved_ his hand in Sebastian's left pocket.

Sebastian jerked back, his arms bent and moving behind him as his feet stumbling on the uneven paving. His arms then returned – his centre of balance having restored – and his hands dug immediately into his pockets, his mind still reeling as his fingers scrambled to find any loose change.

True to his luck, not a penny emerged, and it was then the young noble's line of sight darted towards the ground. His eyes raced from left to right in his sockets, the world turning momentarily upside-down. _He punched me._

The dull thought echoed in his mind as he straightened up again, slightly clutching his stomach, where the connection of fist and body had been made, and turned on his infamous charm.

"I'm truly sorry–" A tiny cough broke his sentence, his abdominal area still contracting and flexing from the shock. "I'm truly sorry, but it appears I have no money on me at the moment. Perhaps, if it were agreeable, the 'arty fellow' could pay for my half as well?" He waited expectantly, applying his 100-watt smile and trying not to cough or splutter.

Unfortunately, the old man wasn't fooled, and grabbed Sebastian by his well ironed collar, marring the pristine white material with his filthy fingers.

"Tis a lie! A' know you dandy types like th' back o' me 'and! Y'always got sumin' lurkin' in th' bottom o' those pockets, y'ain't makin' a fool outta' me, no sir ya' ain't!" It was a truly comical picture, and if Sebastian wasn't busy wrestling out of the man's grip, he would have laughed at it all.

If anyone happened to come across them, the sight they would witness would be no less than hideously strange: an old, dirty, hunched over shell of a man grasping desperately on the shirt of a rather tall, lean, upper class gentleman as they both grappled around, the taller male having to physically stoop to accommodate the captivation of his clothing.

Again, Sebastian attempted to reason with the man,

"Now, I'm sure if we just sort this out like–" Another punch to the gut. "Uh, like gentlemen, I'm sure–" A kick to the shin. "Sure we could–" And yet again, the young noble's sentence was cut short, though not by an act of brutality from the cab driver, nor a heave from his own gut.

This interruption came in the form of a short, polite cough omitted by neither the old driver nor Sebastian. Both heads turned towards the sound, both eyes widening as they saw who had witnessed at least the last part of their 'argument.

A policeman stood, having just turned the corner, staring in bewilderment at the pair. His dark blue uniform and starch black hat marked him immediately as he stared, forehead creasing as he neared.

A thick baton swung from his hip as he walked, the silver buttons of his clothing reflecting the bright October sun. Both interlocked men froze, Sebastian's pale hands scrabbling along his coat, the black material slipping through his fingers as they searched for his pockets. As the policeman drew closer, he, along with the driver, froze, neither man sure of how to approach this situation. Until,

"Help, I'm being robbed! Good _god _man, don't just stand there, help me!" It was a spur of the moment decision, a sudden burst of brain activity that lead Sebastian to shout such a horrid untruth. But it worked. In an instant, the policeman was by his side, forcing the two apart and grabbing the driver.

" 'Ey! I ain't been doin' no thievin'! It be 'im whose th' thief!" The cries were not heard, nor were they acknowledged. Who would believe a lowly cab driver over a wealthy, clean cut, good looking gentleman? Another moment, and the policeman was off, dragging the still screeching old man behind him, the black, thin wheeled cab left benignly by the road, the horses still marking the cobbles with their hooves.

Sebastian felt a sudden surge of guilt; a horrible, numbing feeling that left him feeling quite horrid. He'd just gotten an innocent man _arrested._ Yes, he had been adamant and mildly violent about receiving his pay, but to a certain degree, Sebastian could sympathize with him.

The keep of his horses and well-fare of his family must have depended on the day's wage. That thought; the image of a wife and child at home, hungry and without their father caused a second, stronger pang of guilt to cross his body.

So now, here he was, not a day in London and already he'd committed a vile act, a nasty catch he would do his best to forget. Straightening his now slightly ruffled clothing, he turned, walking in a tiny circle, the cogs in his head moving sluggishly, trying to put a name to a place.

From the sound of things, the painter he'd visited regularly over the past few months had arranged an impromptu meeting… for the _fifth_ time since they'd met. Only this time he'd had Sebastian dropped off slightly further away from his usual destination, so navigation would pose a problem.

The reason for this ridiculous change of venue irritated the young noble, forcing him to take a deep breath, calm his nerves and decide which direction to travel.

It didn't seem a hard business, the only choices being left or right. Red eyes stared down both sides of the pavement, the owner of the aforementioned eyes eventually coming to the conclusion that the right side seemed far more recognizable.

"If I'm wrong, I swear I'll kill that wretched artist."

* * *

"_A Lord Michaelis is in the drawing room for you, sir."_

Ciel smirked, his vicious gaze swerving from the retreating valet to Claude himself, watching the way he frowned, sighed and looked over at the triumphant Earl.

"Actually, I think I'll stay, I want to meet this _Lord Michaelis_." Ciel muttered, smirk only intensifying as Claude shook his head and made his way over to the door, silently leaving the paint splattered room without so much as acknowledging Ciel. The Earls Smile dropped, arms crossing as he made to follow the artist.

Although Claude's house was a far cry from the extravagance of Ciel's own, the winding corridors and spacious rooms still presented a minor annoyance whilst navigating. Eventually he reached the drawing room door, only to see Claude still standing there, hand on the door frame and head pressed up to the crack between the door and the framework he held onto. The image was laughable.

Claude was _spying_ on his guest, and left Ciel to stare at him in mocking glee. _This_ was something he could drop into a casual conversation. There was nothing Ciel enjoyed more than to embarrass Claude, despite the fact the artist never showed any emotion beside mild annoyance. Never-the-less, it would prove an interesting trial.

Clearing his throat, Ciel marched forward, hand gripping the doorknob as he looked towards Claude.

"Enter, shall we?" Flashing a smile at the stoic artist, he turned the knob, pushed the door open and stepped inside, his tailored shoes making little to no sound on the plush carpet. The sight that greeted him, however, caused him to stop in his confident strides.

It wasn't the furniture; the ornate divans and high-backed armchairs, that made him halt, nor was it the array of detailed portraits or intricate statuettes or the beautiful, handcrafted curtains.

It was the man sitting in one of the exquisite armchairs that made Ciel's eyes widen and his forehead crease. If the portrait was beautiful, then the real article… well, there really wasn't an adjective in the_ whole_ English dictionary that would do him justice.

He was an exact mirror image of the portrait, with his coal black hair and crimson eyes, his lean frame and pale skin. What the paint couldn't capture, though, was his complete and utter grace, the way he sat; with his legs crossed and his arms practically floating on the armrests, he was the picture of elegance. His clothes practically fell of his body, ensuing the rich material may as well have been a second skin.

The cascading flow of the white shirt, the tight, figure hugging waist coat, the deep crimson tie and the black leather shoes all served to pronounce this man's perfection.

The look on his face, much to Ciel's dismay, caused the whole façade of matured elegance to crumble away. He was looking at the Earl with such an inquisitive, naïve expression painting his face it literally took years off him. He looked unsure, out of his depth and utterly lost as he stared at the new face that had walked through the door.

Claude's monotony broke the silence,

"Sebastian, _so glad_ you could find your way here." This remark was coupled by a slight glare from the subject, red eyes narrowing. "In any case, I'd like to introduce Earl Ciel Phantomhive," A vague wave in Ciel's general direction accentuated just _who_ he was referring too. "He's another one of my models." Sebastian nodded, although refused to get up. Whether this was out of disdain or embarrassment, Ciel wasn't sure, but non-the-less he sauntered over to the male and offered his hand.

"Ciel Phantomhive, but let us skip the formalities, I never did like them, just 'Ciel' will do." Sebastian nodded again, but this time stood up and grasped Ciel's hand in a firm shake.

"Sebastian Michaelis. It's a pleasure to meet you."

* * *

A passing hour found them back in Claude's 'studio', with Sebastian standing in _Ciel's_ _usual area_, Claude staring intently at him, in much the fashion he _used to_ _stare at Ciel_, and _Ciel _himself lounging in an armchair, entirely bored with the whole spectacle.

Suddenly, he jumped up, setting down the glass he previously held in favour of seeing the 'masterpiece' that was the Portrait of Sebastian Michaelis.

"How much longer are you to be, Claude? I'll have myself a greying beard by the time you're finished."

"Don't you remember me telling you you're permitted to stay, provided you stay _quiet?"_ Claude stared at him with golden irritancy, the rim of the glasses halving the unusual colour.

"Yes, yes, yes but you must be done soon, this isn't the cysteine chapel!" Ciel moved forward again, craning his neck in an attempt to see the canvas.

But before he could get close enough to catch a glimpse, Claude stopped him.

"No. Not an inch further," The artist held out his hand, no longer looking towards the Earl. "When it's finished. Then, and only then, will you see it." Ciel huffed, moving slowly to stare at Sebastian. The young man was standing stock still, his head turned slightly towards Claude, his body facing slightly to the left. Despite Sebastian's obvious good looks, and apparent good nature, Ciel couldn't help but dislike him.

There was something to naïve, to innocent about the young man that thoroughly irritated him.

Of course, that wasn't the only reason. His spot as Claude's favourite was momentarily compromised, his role as number one muse suddenly filled by another. And Sebastian seemed to be _better_ at it than Ciel. He was as good as a statue, and had stayed that way the whole time, moving only to awaken the feeling in his feet. The Earl walked closer, coming to a stop about a metre away from the posing man.

He lent in, pretending to scrutinize something on Sebastian's shoulder.

"Is there a problem?" A deep voice broke him from his playacting, the low timbre surprising him, even with his hearing it twice before. Shaking his head, he moved back again, flicking imaginary dust from his trousers and returning his gaze to the male.

"No, not at all. I mere thought I saw a smudge." At this, Sebastian frowned, breaking his statuesque pose to look towards his shoulder. Finding nothing there he raised his head again, crimson eyes staring into Ciel's.

"Ciel, please refrain from bothering my inspiration, you're a bad influence and a worse model." Claude said, glaring towards the Earl and making shooing actions with his brush. A smile crossed Ciel's face as he appeased the artist, moving aside and away from his current model.

He settled down into a different chair to the one previous, one that happened to be closer to Sebastian, and sat. He sat, and he waited, drumming his fingers on the armrest.

And then, it came. The small, curious question that Ciel had been awaiting.

"Have you always been a bad influence, Earl Phantomhive? As bad as Claude claims?" It was Sebastian who had posed the question, his velvety voice carrying through the whole room. Ciel's face lit up slightly, a mildly cruel expression flitting across it.

"There's no such thing as a _good_ influence, Sebastian – if I may call you that – because all and any influence is rather immoral." The look that crossed Sebastian's perfect face at that moment was one of wonder and confusion; his ears never having heard such outwardly strange words, and especially from someone as young as Ciel.

"What do you mean? Surely good influence must exist. I hear tale of it often." It was so easy to real him in, Ciel thought. So easy to confuse such an open mind.

"All influence is immoral, because to influence a man is to give him your own soul. He no longer thinks his normal thoughts, or burns with his natural passions. His sins – if there are such things as sins – are borrowed. He becomes an echo of someone else's music, an actor playing a part that isn't his. The aim of life is self-development, to realize one's nature perfectly – that's why each of us are here." By the end of that, Sebastian seemed to be thoroughly engaged in whatever Ciel was spewing. So much so, in fact, Ciel felt Sebastian believed his words more than he himself did.

But that was the idea.

"But, surely it would be better to yield to another's influence and be happy, than to walk the thin line of life alone, and fear every passing shadow?" Sebastian countered. Ciel smiled now, an actual, genuine smile. As much as he disliked this man, he was awful fun.

Nobody had dared challenge Ciel's views in all his fifteen years, and this new experience was riveting. Everyone had either accepted his radical idea's as law, or just spoke ill of him behind his back. The latter was the most likely, but _never_ had anyone dared to question him. Most listened just for the sake of enjoyment, to hear his voice and his horrible truths.

But that's what they were. More often than not, the words spilling from Ciel's mouth were the words nobody would ever speak, but which floated around aimlessly in their minds.

"People are too often afraid nowadays. They've forgotten the highest of duties; the duty to one's self. Of course they are charitable. They feed the hungry and clothe the beggars. But their own souls starve. Courage has left our race, or perhaps we never had it. The terror of society is the basis of morals, and the terror of god, the basis of religion. These are the only morals, the only influences that truly govern us, and look where we're left now." That look was back on Sebastian's face. That bewildered, open expression that spoke volumes of his confusion. But yet, his musical voice still offered a reply.

"But whether religion is immoral or not, it does provide. If not for the fear of one's soul, nobody would feed the beggars, or clothe the poor, nor would any kind act be committed. It's my understanding that most good deeds are only done out of fear, and not the kindness of your heart." A contemplative expression took over his face. "And, of course, most pleasure man denies himself is done out of the same fear."

Ciel's smile grew, how interesting this man was! Of course, this didn't deplete the hatred in any way; it just gave Sebastian some extra credit, should it ever be required.

"And yet, I believe if one man drunk fully of the pleasures of life, and lived out his every whim and fantasy, he would leave it wholly satisfied. You and I, Sebastian, hold the world in our hands. We have the only two things worth having; youth and looks. Anything is possible for those who hold these two things."

"Perhaps… How old _are_ you, Earl Phantomhive?"

"Fifteen years, and yourself?"

"Barely twenty." Ciel nodded. He'd suspected they were close in age, but a mere five of six years was a bit too much for the young Earl. Sebastian's naivety truly did take years off of him. Perhaps the passing of the days would grant him a wiser face.

But the male's intellect far made up for any lacking experience, and Ciel would be loath to admit it, but it almost came up to par with his own.

Claude looked up, his golden eyes surveying the pair, both staring intently at each other, both lost in their own worlds.

"It's completed, you may view." Claude said, stepping away from his canvas as he did. That remark caused both the Earl and Sebastian to jump, both heads whipping around to look at the artist before Sebastian hopped of his pedestal and Ciel walked over.

* * *

It was exquisite. Pure and unaffected beauty. Sebastian stared at the portrait with unabashed awe. The fine brush work, the delicate attention to detail all added to the finesse of the end result. The rest of the room faded as Sebastian stared at his own face, the small up-turn of his lips, the magnificence displayed through his eyes, his pale, porcelain skin.

If it was any other time, he would have scolded himself for vanity, but this time it seemed different.

Not vanity, but worship.

"Do I really look like that?" The words were whispers, tiny slivers of speak, wavering in the suddenly thick air of the studio. "It's just so… life-like." He tore his gaze away from himself and looked towards Ciel and Claude, both of whom stood a few steps back from him. Ciel held a look of disdain, and maybe of jealously, his features drawn up into the semblance of a scowl.

Claude's face hadn't altered much at all, the only difference being a slight creasing of his eyes, the best he could obviously manage to recreate joy.

The Earl Phantomhive moved, coming to stand right next to Sebastian, and leaning in, much as he had done earlier. Only this time, it was the painting he was scrutinizing, and not the live article.

"That's not life." His voice was laden with what Sebastian assumed was disgust, the same emotion clear on his face. "He'll always look like that, you know; _that_ Sebastian." He pointed at the canvas. "You, however," he stared at the real Sebastian, "Will not." He walked back again, opting this time to slouch in an armchair, his hand reaching up to play with a rose petal. "In time, mother nature will take its course, and leave you rather wizened."

Sebastian returned his line of sight to the canvas,

"Perhaps, some things are only craved because they don't last." He muttered, fingers reaching up to trace the pattern of his hair.

"Poppycock." Ciel snorted, plucking the petal he fiddled with off the rose he held. "We wither and scar because the gods are cruel and hateful." The petal crushed in his hand, its scented liquids wafting into the musty air.

"Then maybe… I should nail my soul to the devils alter, and forsake the god you speak so intently against." It was a joke, a random thought that popped into his head, but the silence that followed proved the other occupants of the room took it rather more seriously.

"For eternal youth?" Ciel stood up again, pacing round the chair and still refusing to look at Sebastian. "Fair trade." He then proceeded to advance towards Sebastian, his strides heavy and his face still schooled into an expression of disdain. "All that hocus pocus… endless conjurations… books bound in infant's skin…" Sebastian tuned out then, the words spewing from Ciel's mouth nothing but white noise to him now.

Would he really sell his soul for eternal youth?

"..pentacles of fire…"

Of course he wouldn't.

"…drinking the blood of virgins…"

Would he?

"…Sebastian wouldn't really barter his soul."

Wouldn't he?

"Would you, Sebastian?" Ciel's voice was mocking; honey sweet and laced with poison. He reached out, fingers grazing the perfect paintwork; the high cheek bones, raven black hair, porcelain skin.

The words echoed round Sebastian's head, bouncing of the empty walls and permeating through the latticework of the windows. Then one word emerged, one tiny motion that brought the endless echoes to cease.

"Yes."

* * *

**26/07/12**

**Authors note: **Aaarh what a hard scene to write! It's such a turn-point in the story, despite it being so early on. I've used a few quotes from both the book and film that the characters say at points, but most of the dialogue is my own. I think, despite this scene being hard, it was certainly the most fun so far! So dramatic… I hope.

As a bonus, can anyone guess who I've swapped the other characters for? So far we have:

Sebastian Michaelis: Dorian Gray

Ciel Phantomhive: Lord Henry (Harry) Wotton

Claude Faustus: Basil Hallward

And that's it. I'll pose this question after every chapter, so feel free to make a guesstimate as to _any _answers at any point. Cyber cookies to whoever gets one right!

No more knew characters have been introduced as of yet, but they will have their time, don't you worry~

But for now, dear reader, so long!


	4. 6th October 1855, The viewing

**Authors note:** Okay, I'm really, really sorry for this slow update! And I was doing so well before now, too! In any case, I apologize for the late entry; I got swept away on a sea of holidays, and was unable to write any further on this chapter for _ages_. So, as a result, it just hung around in my laptop, pointlessly rotting away. Again, sorry, but at least it's up now, right?

**Disclaimer: ** The concept of 'Kuroshitsuji' is not mine, nor are any of the characters used. If I, by some miracle, did come into possession of 'Kuroshitsuji', I would litter it with so much fan-service you'd be sick.

* * *

**October 6****th**** 1855**

Sebastian's London house was a massive thing; a huge, aggrandized hunk of architecture he'd inherited from his late grandfather. Since the old goat had 'pushed the daisies', Cable street had been a swarms nest of location hunters, property developers and many of the nobility wishing to purchase a charming, London house to add to their vast collection.

Unfortunately for them, the Kingdom-affairs office managed to unearth an heir; a down spoken, hidden gem of a lad who the late Count Michaelis – the corpse in question – had named as his successor, and the next owner of his unscrupulous empire. The young noble had then been searched for diligently, eventually being unearthed from a small orphanage on the edge of Cambridge.

The next Count Michaelis had been found, namely the grandson of the previous Count.

Later discoveries then pronounced the young Count illegitimate, as his father had been borne of 'humble birth', and although his mother was a Countess, a ladies position didn't account for much. That was followed by a long and strenuous court session, the jury finally declaring that:

"Although the father was a mere shoe maker, and was previously connected to no member of the nobility, nothing should not detract from the legitimacy of Mr Michaelis' claim. No second son was born, nor a first daughter. In an instance such as this, it shall be stated that this young man, although unable to carry the title 'Count', will remain a 'Lord', and an heir to the late Count Michaelis' possessions. This ruling is final."

Subsequently, Sebastian had been thrust into the social whirlpool of London, his east bound house gaining him access to the self-proclaimed high life.

But today, despite the vast rooms and gapping halls, the town house was still crawling with bodies, everybody who was anybody cumulating to witness the unveiling of a masterpiece rumoured to be the most exquisite, divine creation in London. It had been not two days since word got round that Claude Faustus had created another fine painting, and not an hour since the guests had been shown into the centre room to watch the royal blue curtain fall down, revealing the artwork they so longed to see.

News travels fast if it detracts even minutely from the monotony of the tedious London life.

Everyone in attendance today was a devout follower – and occasional worshiper – of Claude Faustus's work, and not one forgoes the chance to admire his fine work first. Naturally, this put a great deal of stress on Claude, who, despite his outward emittance, was a persnickety man who abhorred failure.

Sebastian gazed around nervously, crimson eyes darting from face to face, trying for the life of him to recall _anything_ about _anyone_ in the room, striving to pull even the tiniest sliver of information out of his over-rated grey matter. It wasn't working. Try as he might, Sebastian still had a very limited out-look on the upper class society of London, and had yet to form an acquaintanceship with many of them.

So he just stood there, in a grey dress-coat, black tailored trousers, a detailed frock-shirt and an emerald green cravat, trying his upmost to maintain some semblance of normalcy or togetherness.

It was during this time – as his eyes danced skittishly around the crowd – that he noticed several peculiarities. Men were pointing his way and nodding, tipping their hats if they were caught. Young ladies were staring at him, only to giggle and avert their gazes once they met his eye, and young children just stood there, staring with bright eyes. Sebastian shifted his weight, hopping slowly from foot to foot in an attempt to lose any apprehension he'd built up.

The stares continued, curious eyes sliding his way every now and then, necks moving slightly out of alignment to catch a quick snap of the dark haired male by the table. It was the tiny movement, the minute flicks of motion that caused Sebastian to avert his eyes to the floor, only to return his gaze up, a structured look of pleasant indifference apparent on his chiselled features.

If nothing else, he must appear composed, in his element, and completely at ease with the situation.

The young women especially appeared to take a liking to him. They were huddled in groups of around five or six, all wearing glistening jewellery and intricately designed dresses with over-sized bustles and equally large hats. But they were just the first. It seemed _everyone_ in the room was steeling glances at him, gesturing towards him with shining eyes or just throwing him tiny smiles every time eye contact was granted.

Apparently _everyone_ wanted to catch sight of their 'great artist's' celebrated muse.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, if you would be so kind as to congregate over here," An unknown announcer called, his voice lifting over everyone else's perfectly, shifting the atmosphere to one of subdued excitement. "The curtain is due to fall." At this, tiny murmurs arose in the room, the atmosphere changing yet again, swapping excitement and silence for wonder and muffled approval. And the curtain hadn't even dropped yet.

It was ridiculous, but Sebastian felt tiny flutters of nervousness arise in his stomach, as if leaves were dancing and swirling inside of him. There was no need for this apprehension, he told himself, he'd already seen the painting. He'd already looked upon in, and decided it quite marvellous.

Perhaps, the worry came from the others in the room; maybe he was scared of their opinions of it.

And rightly so, he thought, as any criticism of the painting would inevitably fall to him, as the model for such a working. Maybe he wasn't good enough, not young enough, or handsome enough or famous enough.

The fear increased.

What if they all laughed at him? Called him ugly and proclaimed him the poor son of a widow, telling him he wasn't fit to hold heritage to all that he did. He wiped his hands together, a slight sweat accumulating around them, before pulling at his collar in a futile attempt to cool himself down.

"What are you fretting about?" The sharp voice of Ciel Phantomhive asked, his tone quiet, almost to the point of whispering, but not quite. "Only the blind could fault you." Despite the outward appearance of awe, the words Ciel had spoken weren't a compliment, at least not to Sebastian. The tone they had been voiced in held a distinct underline of reprimand, and his face held such a contemptuous air that anything he said felt like an insult. Although, Sebastian mused, it probably was in this case.

And there Ciel stood, staring at Sebastian with those cool, calculating eyes. His hair has been pinned back, a stark contrast to their first meeting, in which Ciel had been sporting an unruly disarray of blue-ish black locks. His eyes also seemed sharper, and possibly crueller, than before, and his body language certainly spoke of a strong dislike for the man he spoke to.

"Have you seen the way they stare at you, Sebastian? Any fear you may hold, looking the way you do, is pure vanity." Sebastian made a deprecate face, that was _defiantly _a veiledinsult. Was the Earl Phantomhive this coarse to everyone he met, or did he just reserve this charming attitude for him?

"Maybe so, but surely having complete faith in your own face is vanity also?" Sebastian countered, a charming smile etching its way onto his face. There was something about talking to Ciel that thrilled him. Whether it be the intellectual topics or competitive nature, he hadn't quite decided.

"No, that's merely what most would brand as confidence. Vanity is being conceited enough to fear others perceptions of yourself, despite the many compliments rained upon you." Ciel murmured, his voice still quiet enough to be heard by only himself and the man he spoke to. He looked away then, his sapphire gaze falling to rest on the mantel piece under the curtain, still unwilling to lay eyes on the portrait, despite the thick material covering it.

The room suddenly feel completely silent, all eyes facing the veiled wall above the mantel and fireplace. It was a grand place for a portrait, certainly. Anyone walking into the room would find their gaze drawn to it immediately. That was the idea, at the very least.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen," The announcers voice piped up again, this time projecting further into the vast room. "May I present, 'The picture of Sebastian Michaelis', painted by Claude Faustus, and framed by 'Slingby and Humphries frames'."

And so, the curtain fell.

Silence reined for an eternity, and Sebastian could feel his calm façade ripping like tissue paper. And then, as if spurred by the gods, a colossal hubbub began.

"Oh, how sublime!"

Everyone in the room stared at the painting, awe filled eyes gazing upwards as they rained their praise upon the artist.

"Another success, I believe."

"And look at those eyes, almost a match for the original."

"What a stellar job, Mr Faustus!"

Claude, who had been standing in a solitary corner, was suddenly pulled into the congregation, clapped on the back by the men and showered with compliments and questions. He looked entirely out of his depth, his golden eyes narrowing slightly and his mouth pressing into a thin line. No, Claude Faustus was defiantly _not_ a people's person.

Sebastian turned his back to the irritated Claude, moving to view the picture in the exact opposite position to his own. It depicted an old man, a Count in point of fact, his face haggard and his features drawn. He stood, with his arms stuck fast to his side, his rounded body in a slightly diagonal position. His expression was one of grim aloofness, and his eyes bored directly into Sebastian's own painted ones.

It might have been a compliment, to have his portrait on show alongside his grandfathers, but Sebastian had never cared for the old Count. Not that they spent a great deal of time together, but even so, no love was ever borne, nor any feelings of remorse. Just an empty, carved out hole were his emotions should have been.

It was a small wonder indeed that the young noble had yet to form any opinion on the Count, considering their past, and Sebastian pondered on it often. The old man had hated his father, condemned him for his humble birth and degrading job, snapping 'No pathetic shoe maker is the rightful owner of a Countesses heart!', and proclaiming that if the marriage was seen through, he would have nothing to do with either of them ever again.

Obviously, the marriage went ahead, followed shortly after by the birth of a young boy, soon to be named 'Sebastian', and soon to live a happy, fulfilling life as the son of a shoe maker, and the brother of many younger siblings.

That perfect dream, however, was just that, a _dream_. Five years was all Sebastian was granted to live such an idealistic, bountiful life. Five years of happiness was all he ever received…

Sebastian shook his head, as if dispelling them with a whip if his hair. Never again would he dwell on those times… _never again._

"Well, no time like the present." Lifting his hands, he smoothed his unruly hair and patted down his clothes. He gulped, his throat already drying up, and, plucking up every ounce of courage he hoped he possessed, Sebastian Michaelis walked into the crowd. _Right into the lion's den._

It was time to face the battle.

It was time to _socialize._

* * *

Ciel was bored. No, 'bored' didn't even scratch the surface. He was _loathsomely _bored. Hideously bored, murderously bored, disgustingly bored, heinously, repulsively, abhorrently, utterly and _disastrously_ bored.

"Not enough adjectives." He muttered, almost pouting at his lack of literary ability. _Almost._ Ciel Phantomhive didn't pout; he frowned with all the eloquence expected of a British Noble.

"What was that, Earl Phantomhive?" A rather tall old man asked, having previously been talking with the Earl, prior to his zoning out. If Ciel was in the presence of a familiar face, he would have had no pause in telling them how utterly boorish their conversation had been, so much so that he had unknowingly begun to daydream. Unfortunately, this man was one Ciel had never laid eyes on before, and, respecting the proper etiquette, he must not appear so brash.

"Oh nothing, my thoughts were just straying back to that wonderful piece of art over there, and, in doing so, I realized there weren't enough adjectives to describe its beauty." _Nice save._ "Our engaging talk on…" What _had_ they been discussing? _Think Phantomhive! Think!_ "… Dentistry really got me thinking." Nope, that didn't sound as good out loud as it had in his head.

Thankfully, the gentleman didn't seem to notice the blatant – and far-fetched – lie, opting instead to praise the young Earl on his keen and appraising nature. Nodding, Ciel excused himself, wanting nothing more than to leave. His presence had been noted, and that's all he cared to achieve. Socializing never was his forte – to much small talking and veiled wooing.

Gripping his customary walking stick, Ciel weaved and ducked past many a flailing arm, successfully avoiding all eye contact that might ensue a conversation. The doors were in sight, their glass frames shining in the October sun. The brass doorknobs were within reach now, he only had to grasp one, pull it and –

"Earl Phantomhive, I'm glad you could come." Said a deep, sultry voice. Ciel turned round, pulling his hand from the door and clenching it by his side. His eyes rolled upwards as he turned, and his jaw slid almost from side to side as his irritated gaze finally fell on the interrupter. _Sebastian._

If he was honest, the Earl had truly no idea why he disliked Sebastian as much as he did. Perhaps it was his awkwardness; the way he didn't quite hold his lanky body with as much grace as he should have. It might have been the easy charm he – unknowingly – applied whilst talking. Or maybe – and this was the most likely – it was the fact Sebastian's picture was so many tiers higher than any of his. So much so, in fact, that a whole 'viewing' was organized in which to appreciate it.

And, as many of the English Nobility knew, Earl Ciel Phantomhive did not take kindly to falling second to _anyone_. Not even someone as 'charming' as Sebastian.

"Ah, Lord Michaelis, it was my immense pleasure to lay eyes on that masterpiece for a second time." The words where spat from grated teeth. "Now, if you would excuse me." And with that, he turned – for the second time that day – to take his leave, no longer wishing to strain his patience.

A hand grabbed his wrist, though, the firm hold denying him further distance.

"No, please do stay, Earl. I find you're the only person, besides Claude, that I actually know." Sebastian pleaded, his grip on Ciel's wrist not diminishing, even as the body it belonged to swivelled around, again coming face to face with those carmine eyes.

"I'm very sorry," _Not_. "But I really do have to leave; I'm on a tight schedule." Sebastian's face fell, his grip loosening on Ciel's wrist for a short span before it tightened again and he donned a slightly more determined expression.

"Then couldn't you introduce me to one of your acquaintances? It would only take a minute, then you could leave." Ciel rolled his eyes, fighting back a growl and forcing his face into some semblance of a smile, however fake it may be.

"Of course, we couldn't have you by yourself now, could we?" His face was grim, his tone lightly sarcastic as he nodded towards his arm. "Now, if you would kindly release me?" Ciel asked, staring pointedly at the strong hand gripping his own. Sebastian blanched, all the charm he previously held disappearing for a second as a light dust of pink freckled his cheeks. He cleared his throat, straightening back up and dropping the wrist he was gripping so intently.

"Uh, sorry. And thank you." Sebastian motioned back towards the room. "Shall we?" And his grace was back, that charming smile he possessed now firmly in place, and his eyes gleaming with all the interest of youth.

Ciel nodded, frowning as he walked behind the noble. _He's too tall._

In actuality, Sebastian only stood a head or two above Ciel, but, as noted before, he didn't accept second place, especially not to the likes of Sebastian. _But_ _he's too damn tall!_

"Earl?" Sebastian's voice cut through his short inner complaint. "Perhaps you could introduce me to one or two of the guests?" Ciel let a sigh brush past his lips. This was going to prove tedious. Clearly, hiding beneath all the show and grace Sebastian owned was a shy young man, incapable of socializing without an accompaniment.

And then, a fantastic, marvellous and possibly entirely hilarious idea crossed Ciel's mind.

"But of course, Sebastian. I know just who to begin with." And, with a small hand gesture, he marched off, leaving Sebastian to walk behind him like a tall, dark shadow. A small, almost imperishable smirk flitted over Ciel's face at that moment, his eyes lighting up maliciously as they searched for that familiar stark-red silhouette.

_Yes!_ It only took a second to locate it; vibrant red among a sea of muted pinks and dull greys was never really a challenge, if Ciel was honest. Sadistic glee lit up his eyes as he sauntered over to the small gathering by the window, Sebastian naively trailing behind, unaware of the torment he would soon find himself in.

This 'friend' of Ciel's was, yet again, one that he loathed. The Earl had yet to recall an acquaintance of his that he genuinely enjoyed spending time with.

The friend in question wasn't one he spent a great deal of time with, but who sometimes proved useful; whether it be a quick distraction or a paid performance,

And he defiantly proved a valuable ally in such a circumstance as this.

As they neared their destination, Ciel schooled his feature to a look of pleasant surprise. It was_ show time. _

"Grell, I thought you were in Italy this time of year, what brings you back to England?" Ciel asked, the sheer amount of red in front of his eyes causing his blood to congeal. The figure before him turned, the front of his outfit offering little cover from the blinding crimson draped over it.

"Oh, I wouldn't worry yourself over such trivial matters." Grell's eyes didn't stray from Sebastian as he spoke, leaving Ciel to frown by his side. "Now, why don't you introduce me to your friend?" His eyes practically gleamed as he motioned to Sebastian, his toothy grin widening as he sauntered over. Sebastian's own eyes widened fractionally, his posture stiffening as the red figure prowled closer.

The dark-haired noble looked completely and utterly out of his depth, his crimson eyes screaming bloody murder at Ciel as his was forced to remain where he was, and forced to spend the next hour or so conversing with this frightening being.

And just like that, Ciel's job was done. The next few minutes were filled with rushed introduction, polite excuses, and then Ciel was gone, leaving Grell practically hanging from Sebastian's shoulder, and Sebastian himself wearing such a sour expression, he might as well have joined a funeral precession.

It was almost a shame he wouldn't be there to witness the agony Sebastian would be going through.

_Almost._

* * *

8/08/12

**Authors note:** Oh, that last section took me ages, sorry for the wait! I just couldn't get it to feel right, and I think I still sort of dislike it, but I can't do any better for now, my literary skills aren't quite that developed yet. So unfortunate!

Anyway, thanks for reading this far, I hope my story hasn't disappointed you! I think at some point I might go through it again and redo all of the chapters, as I find that I dislike most of them now. In any case, I'm so happy I've made it this far, because this is the furthest I've ever gotten with a multi-chapter! All the rest have gotten deleted, so I hope this one doesn't end up like that too!

As a bonus, can anyone guess who I've swapped the other characters for? So far we have:

Sebastian Michaelis: Dorian Gray

Ciel Phantomhive: Lord Henry (Harry) Wotton

Claude Faustus: Basil Hallward

Grell Sutcliff: Sibyl Vane

And that's it. I'll pose this question after every chapter, so feel free to make a guesstimate as to _any _answers at any point. Cyber cookies to whoever gets one right!


End file.
